Stirling Strings for Titanium Things
by visceralfringe
Summary: A/U Rebecca Mitchell is the bellwether for the underground beat movement (UBM). Chloe Beale, a prodigy with a violin, is the crown jewel of Planet Barden's Academy of Sound. And they're about to make beautiful music together.
1. Preview

**Stirling Strings for Titanium Things**

_~A Fanfic inspired by Lindsey Stirling's new album.~_

**Movie:** Pitch Perfect

**Pairing:** Bechloe

**Genre:** Science Fiction and Fantasy

**Setting:** ALTERNATE UNIVERSE/Planet Barden

**Rating:** M for Mature. Expect lots of shipping, violence, adult language, and sex scenes. (It's _me_ for crying out loud. That's pretty much a given.)

_Once upon a time, on a faraway world obsessed with maintaining cultural uniformity..._

Rebecca "Becca" Mitchell, leader of the underground beat movement, is the creator of MUSE (the Mash Up Sync Engine), a program that has been banned from polite society.

Chloe Beale, a prodigy with a violin, is the crown jewel of Barden's Academy of Sound, and all that is wrong with the music community.

Lieutenant Aubrey Posen is a hopeful for Barton's Chief of Police. She is assigned to Chloe's security detail while she tours the planet, along with rookies Lilly Onakuramara and Patricia (AKA Fat Amy).

Cyn Adams is the bouncer for "Luke's Place", HQ for all MUSE operations, Jesse Swanson's bartending, Benji Applebaum's mad janitor skills, and Stacie Conrad's go-go dancing.

Bumper and his Treble Makers are underground extremists dedicated to sabotaging any AOS performance.

Director Mitchell, President of Barden's Academy of Sound, is Becca's father.

And everyone is about to be pitch slapped something fierce!

**Author's Note:** I'm sure some of you noticed I took Bitter for Sweet and Breath of Life down. Sorry bout it bros. It was so far removed from the Avengers verse that I decided to convert it, instead of letting it sit around and collect dust in my drive. I changed all the names, tweaked the plot and cut the canon threads, and made it into book. I'll let you know if they publish it under my PN. Thaaaat probably won't happen, but that's alright too! ^_^


	2. Chapter One

I have a crap-ton more written. I was planning for chapter one to end after Becca and Chloe met (which would put it at... oh... ten thousand words maybe?). Buuut people are starting to follow this and I'm starving for reactions. Thank you a million Swedish Fish for your interest. Plus, I'm missing too many connecting scenes that flesh Aubrey and Chloe out more, which I plan to write this evening... after I do the deadline I've been procrastinating. I'm so amped about this story, guys! I can't even... I cant. I won't shut up about it. My poor roommate knows he's in for an earfull before he even walks in the door. Luckily, we're both Pitch Perfect obsessed. So, it's fine.

Cheers! :D

author update: I spelled Becca wrong! Dx I'm so sorry. Only just realized. Trying to correct it now. :)

* * *

"Uhn~... that cock... Uh! Oh yeah!"

Becca's brows knit together groggily. She opens one eye, plucked from her velvet, dreamless sleep and dumped back onto hard reality.

"mmf! Yeah! Give it to me!"

More theatrical moans are muffled by creaking bedsprings, all coming from the other side of her wall. Becca groans. She reaches for her pocket-com, nearly knocking it off her nightstand. It's half past 3PM.

Becca drops the device back on the nightstand. She turns over and drags the pillows and disheveled sheets tighter to her, preferably around her ears.

"Ooo~! Fuck! _Yeah_ baby!"

"Seriously?" she laments. Becca's hand juts out from the pile of linens and flails about, searching for the wall - a thin plank of weather worn wood dividing her room from Kimi Jin's. She beats her palm against it clumsily. The slaps echo through the shabby, bare confines of her drab living space. "Hey in there! Can you keep it down, KJ!?"

A man's voice gnashes at her. "Shut up, bitch. I pay good money for this!"

Becca's blood starts simmering. She sits up like a shot, her wily brown hair a tangled mess of static and frizz. "Yeah?!" Her head throbs relentlessly, which does nothing to cool her mood.

"Yeah!" She can hear the limits of his English proficiency. That guy is not going topside anytime soon...

"Well I pay good money for this room, you dopechoked shithead!" the spunky brunette fires back. She chucks her pillow at the wall.

"I come in there and -!" his threats devolve into a slew of slanderous Koreyann. It's not easy living next to a known prostitute, but bunking space is limited in the residential district. Becca grumbles all the way to the communal sponge stalls. Sanctioned hot springs are expensive, even down here. The hanging lights lining the cabled choked tunnels flicker unreliably. The paths are well traveled, packed down by thousands of familiar feet. She can hear water dripping and the perpetual clicking and clanking of generators. Cart wheels, rustling trash, crass shouts, steam grates... The sounds of a typical afternoon.

This far underground, there really is no difference between night and day. Still, people seem to party harder around the midnight hour, and Luke's Place operates under that standard.

There's a new tribal tattoo on Becca's back, meant to conceal another scar that mars her shoulder blade. The underground is a lawless place. If you want something, have to fight for it. The Baths, fragrant with mold, salt, and human sweat, aren't segregated based on sex. Indecency would flourish regardless. The thick clouds of steam are already condensing on Becca's skin.

Stacie, comb in hand, rounds the corner in the buff. Her breasts – the envy of every woman on this side of The Riff – are hidden behind her long raven tresses.

"Hi, Becca," she grins, fluttering her fingers flirtatiously. Becca replies with a tight smile of her own. She likes Stacie, but the Amazon intimidates her. (And she's probably the only person on Barden who can boast that.) Becca slips into the first available stall and dips her sponge into the free flowing water trough.

Jesse Swanson takes the stall beside her. "You ready for tonight?"

Becca shrugs haplessly, scrubbing at the pit of her arm. "Just another night. Same Bassmaker as always."

Jesse douses his face. "You sound thrilled. Big bass not your thing anymore?"

Becca's brows jump up incredulously. She shakes her head and resumes washing. "I'm just sick of the same sound, Jess. She needs something new."

"Cyber-grams get bored?"

"She does," Becca defends, quite seriously.

He laughs, folding his arms to lay his elbows across the divider. "Bec... Do you know how rare BMs are?"

She shoots him a wry smile. "Considering I created the program? Sure. I know. Not as rare as Lyricists, but…" She wilts under the truth in his statement. "Yeah. You're right. I just don't want her to lose her allure."

"As if," Jesse scoffs. "She's the greatest thing anyone here has ever seen. Probably for topsiders too."

"Which is precisely why they banned her…" Becca glowers. She braces one hand on the wall to scrub the black off her feet.

Gently, "Hey." Jesse purses his lips. "Do you know how amazing it is for someone to hear the music in their soul? To make it audible to a room full of people?" Becca manages what she can of a smile, somewhat soothed by the reminder. "Tell you what. I'll fish around for a new BK at the bar."

"Gah… Beatkeepers are a dime a dozen," she mumbles, splashing water over her arms. "Anyone can do that. It's all heartbeat and energy. There's no real talent needed."

Something glints at the corner of Becca's eyes. She turns her head to see Jesse holding up a small, slender vial. Becca goes slackjawed and makes a grab at it. Jesse recoils too quickly. "Only if I get a smile," he stipulates.

"Where did you get that?" she whispers lowly, her eyes darting about to make sure no one else saw.

"I have my ways." He waggles his eyebrows. Becca reaches for it again. "Smile for me!" he baits with a grin.

Becca rolls her eyes, unable to curb the smirk that splits into a grin. "You're incorrigible."

"So I'm told," he beams back. Becca sucks her smiling lips in. True to his word, Jesse hands her the tiny bottle, which Becca handles like a precious treasure. She carefully unscrews the lid and holds the vial beneath her nose, absorbing the fresh, flowery smell wafting up from its contents.

"Real perfume…" she swoons, transfixed.

Jesse leans down to prop his chin on his arms. "It's for you."

Becca balks. "What?" Jesse winks at her, his eyes brimming with glee and sincerity. Breathlessly, "Jess… Thank you."

"Thank Benji." Jesse raises his hands, palms turned out humbly. "He's got the magic connections."

"I will." Becca secures the lid and tucks it into a pocket on the utility shelf. "Are you guys doing okay?"

"Yeah," Jesse's smile grows, nodding. He massages a splash of water into the back of his neck. "With the extra money, we've been able to stock up on food. If things keep looking up, we're thinking of fostering later this year."

Becca admires him with a fond sidelong smirk. "That's awesome. You guys would be great at that."

"You going scouting tonight?" Jesse eyes her.

Becca considers, weighing the incentives against the risks. "Thought I'd pop up there for a while before work."

"What if you're IDed?" he poses, visibly uncomfortable with the idea.

Becca smirks, brandishing the perfume at him. "With_ this_? They won't think twice. A quick-check will see me on my way. And if it doesn't… well… that's why I carry a gun."

Jesse adopts a deadpan expression and shakes his head. "Man. You really are itching for new trouble." He grins. "Or should I say Treble?" Becca softly slugs his arm.

* * *

"Sir-"

"Don't argue with me, Lieutenant. An assignment is an assignment."

The statuesque Aubrey Posen squares her shoulders and sets her lips into a grim line, standing stiff as a board. Her immaculate blond curls are roped into a ponytail behind her head. The fitted, heavily starched collar of her jet black uniform reaches clear up to her throat. "Respectfully, I did not join the force to babysit some prissy, pampered Aritso popstar."

"She's hardly prissy," Captain John Smith negates, seated comfortably in his desk. "She's actually quite kind. Miss Beale's talents are unrivaled and Treble activity is increasing. This might very well be a challenge for you."

Aubrey is outraged. She flexes her hands. "A challenge? Sir, riot control is a challenge. Double homicides are a challenge. Sorting recyclables is more of a challenge than this!"

The Captain sighs, leveling a stack of reports with a smart smack on his desk. He sets them aside and folds his hands. "Posen, I don't have to remind you of the incident the day of your commissioner's exam. No one thinks you have the stomach for real police work."

Aubrey bristles at the underhanded joke. It's hardly her fault that, under extreme depress, her body cannot keep anything down. Incensed, "I had the flu!"

"They don't believe that," he reminds her with a lopsided smirk. "And neither do I."

Aubrey purses her lips. Her eyes fall away, roiling with rage from the inside out.

"I have confidence in you," he offers, as if it softens the blow. "But I'm not the one you have to impress anymore. Prove them wrong."

Aubrey fills her lungs, willing the threadbare contents of her stomach to stay right where they are. "Yes, sir."

The Captain nods rigidly. "I want you to take Lily and Amy with you. Show them the ropes."

"The rookies?" Aubrey balks. "… You're kidding."

He tilts his head, hardly amused. "Is that a problem?"

"No, sir."

He sits back and steeples his fingers. "Good. Dismissed." Aubrey clicks her heels together, bows her head to him, and marches briskly out of his office.


	3. Chapter Two

Chloe gasps, her cheeks flushed and her brow damp with sweat. Her long ruby red spirals bounce around her face. Her calloused fingers clutch tighter to the flowered edge of her bureau. Madame Abernathy stands behind her, her hands tangled into the tails of the silky ribbons that crisscross their way down her spine. The woman yanks again with strength that belies her slim physique, forcing another startled grab for air from Chloe's lungs.

Chloe presses the flat of her palm against her stomach, uncomfortably constricted by the corset.

"How... How do I walk in this?" she wheezes.

"We don't walk, dear. We strut." Gail Abernathy smiles as she carefully ties the creamy ribbons into a perfect bow.

Chloe nods obediently, cementing the word and the images that come with it into her mind. Confidence, purpose, and perfect posture - all invaluable to a student of Braden's Academy of Sound. Gail carefully places her hands on Chloe's arms, guiding her away from the bureau and towards the mirror adorning her vanity. Gail smiles lovingly over Chloe's shoulder. With the makeup, the corset, and the intricate array of pins shaping her hair, she barely recognizes herself.

Chloe inclines her chin, filling her chest with what little air the corset allows, inadvertently accentuating the rounds of her breasts above the brim.

"You are so beautiful," Gail professes in earnest.

Gail's approval calls a radiant grin to Chloe's face. She turns her head, eyeing her figure from different angles. Her smile falters for a millisecond, because she can't see it. Luckily, Gail doesn't notice.

Gail's smile is a sunset on the ocean, something so vibrant and awe inspiring that no one could look at her and not confess the same thing. She has been Chloe's mentor since the discovery of her budding talent at the impressionable age of fifteen. Chloe, who loves the woman like a mother, longs to be her mirror - to exhibit all the grace, eloquence, and poise the woman exudes in spades, to be the quintessence of everything an Aristo woman is supposed to embody. She can't think about her days with the neighborhood boys and their sparing matches anymore. She doesn't recall her hatred of expensive fabrics and elegant finery, buried in a time so far behind her that it doesn't feel real.

Gail squeezes her fondly and then hurries towards the closet, her fingers fluttering with excitement. She throws the door open and waltzes inside. She emerges holding a hanger. A long dress dangles from the prongs, the strapless blue gown tapering down to the right and flowering out clear to the floor, the rippling folds shimmering in this light. The fabric darkens from sky blue to midnight indigo at the hem, dusted in sapphires and diamonds over the bust and a descending swirling line. Transparent mesh sashes its center and spills down in silvery waterfalls. Chloe gasps. She meets Gail's proud, watering eyes.

"It's marvelous!" Chloe praises sweeping forward. "Oh, Madame... I've never seen anything so stunning!"

"When you wear this tonight, the whole world will have."

Chloe beams and surges forward, embracing her mentor. "Thank you so much." Gail squeezes her warmly. She pulls back, quickly wiping tears from her flawless cheeks.

"Go on then. Try it on," she encourages giddily, tucking the hanger into Chloe's hands.

There is a smart knock at the door. Before Gail can approve, it swings open. Madame Abernathy instantly ushers Chloe behind her, outraged by the intrusion. Chloe is in not but her underclothes which, while concealing the majority of her body, are still considered indecent in Barden's Aristo society.

"Madame Ab-" Captain John Smith of Barden's finest police force stops short and averts his eyes. A stately blond in uniform stands beside him. Chloe sees her flush as she peers at them over Gail's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," he expresses quickly.

The woman's expression softens, but her voice remains stern. "We'll be with you in a moment, John."

Captain Smith promptly shuts the door.

* * *

The Captain looks flustered. He clasps his hands behind his back, clearing his throat with staunch austerity. Aubrey, who seems to have forgotten how to breathe, swallows thickly, keeping her jaw tense and her mouth shut.

When she received this assignment, she was not aware that her charge would be so...

"Someone call for backup?" an exotic voice says.

Officer Posen looks up to see the two rookies from the precinct standing at attention before them. The laconic Lily Onakuramara stares blankly back at her. The young woman is indeed peculiar, but even Aubrey can't insult her impeccable arms scores. She is an unbeatable shot at headquarters. Patricia's talents, on the other hand, lie elsewhere, the stout blond being first in her class in combat commitment and raw grit. She's also quite the comedian, or so Aubrey has heard.

"Ah. Officers. Right on time," the captain commends with a confident grin. Lily strikes a stiff, soldierly pose. Patricia quickly copies her. "Lieutenant Posen," John Smith starts, "this is Lily Onakuramara and Pat-"

"Amy, sir," the bright eyed blond hurriedly corrects. "Fat Amy."

"You call yourself Fat Amy?" Aubrey drones, eyeing the rookies with her own potent brand of disapproval.

"Yes, sir," Amy declares. "So twig bitches like you don't do it behind my back, sir."

Posen lofts a slender brow. She has to make an effort to stifle her smile. Amy has_ some_ nerve. Still, the fact that the young woman referred to her as sir speaks volumes as well. Aubrey enjoys being held to the same standard as her male counterparts. No matter how much more girth the other blond has on her, Aubrey can still wrestle her to the ground and take her to the tap within a three seconds flat.

"Very well… Fat Amy," Posen smarts.

"Officer Posen, if you wouldn't mind briefing them on their assignment," the Captain leads.

She nods. "Sir. Starting today, our mission is to protect Miss Chloe Beale, a top student at Barden's Academy of Sound, by whatever means necessary. We expect terrorist activity will surface with her appearance. Nothing is to befall Miss Beale while under our watch. Understood?"

"Yes sir!" Fat Amy exclaims, yanking her hand up to her brow in a dutiful salute. Aubrey could have sworn Lily mouthed the same thing, but she didn't hear it.

The door to Miss Beale's dressing room opens. Madame Abernathy glides out into the hall in a whisper of fine fabric to join her prodigy's security team. She gingerly shuts the door behind her. The woman gives Captain Smith a wry frown. He laughs sheepishly. Smith quickly introduces them all to her. She's a charming lady. Aubrey can't fathom how she functions in a bodice that lead tight, but she manages with impressive finesse. Madame Abernathy is dressed in a floor length silk gown of royal purple, overlayed with intricate patterns of black lace. She also wears matching gloves and a dainty choker around her neck. Her golden hair is swept back into a crown of curls at the back of her head.

Aubrey listens as she explains Chloe's grueling schedule, and the demands they will need to meet in order to keep up with her. But Aubrey's thoughts linger on the striking ginger behind the door and how much she wishes she could see her in that corset just one more time.

* * *

Back in the dressing room, Chloe flounders in Gail's absence. She swallows, her expression skewed by every second glance she takes in the mirror. It starts as a twitching knot in her gut and swells to a writhing mass, stubbornly lodged just below her ribs. She turns to the left and the right, her hands pressed to her stomach, her ships, and her breasts, scrutinizing every inch in despair.

She is about to take center stage at Lincoln Coliseum, where many an aspiring student has cracked under the pressure. One may as well go big or go home. The global telecast will reach the most remote corners of the planet. Everyone will see her, precisely as she is.

Chloe rolls her eyes at her nerves and warring heart. That skulking, vicious demon forged from years of high expectations that sits on her shoulder, whispering about her imperfections... and how ugly she will look on the megascreens.

Chloe has everything when she doesn't deserve it. Her life is the epitome of perfect when she was born to be forgotten. For the life of her, she can't understand why she feels the way she does. She's a hypocrite. Everyone will see it in high definition. Sure, she can hide it in smaller circles. But this is Lincoln. How could anyone miss the fact that she's… unhappy? A mistake? A fake? Unfocused? Unreliable? Unwanted since the beginning? Impure? That she identifies just as easily with her masculine side as her feminine side? Such a blatant imbalance of gender rolls is unheard of for an Aristo woman who wants to be part of polite society. Chloe isn't Aristo material, not truly. She's not delicate. It takes ever thread of self-restraint to play the violin without succumbing to passion she fosters. Chloe has been forced into a mold that is suffocating her as surely as the contraption she's wearing.

Female graduates of the Barden Academy of Sound are known as Bellas, males are Bellos. As alumni of the prestigious university, they enjoy not only loftier social standing, but stellar privileges as full citizens. Graduates live comfortably for the rest of their days. Chloe has to put these frivolous thoughts and uncertainties away.

There is no other choice.

_"I think we should invite them."_

_Valedictorian Alice Fynes __balks. "The underlings?" __They room together in the dormitory. She has an iron hourglass figure, raven black hair, and wintry black eyes. "__Chloe, do you realize what you're saying? They don't belong with us."_

_"Why not? Every person loves music."_

_Alice quickly shuts their door. "You can't say things like that. You don't want to be stripped of your rights and deported under, do you?" _

_"Of course not. No. But-,"Chloe starts._

_"Look, sweetie. I like you. And I know you grew up mislead, in that orphanage." She nods sympathetically as she joins Chloe on the edge of her bed. "It's so unfortunate you were forced to live with some of those children. I understand the way you think isn't your fault. So I'm going to help you out, okay?" She rises from Chloe's bedside and crosses to her nightstand, opening a drawer and fishing a newspaper article out of its confines. She returns holding it carefully between her freshly manicured fingers. "Do you see this boy?" she asks gently, indicating a smiling brunette._

_Chloe frowns intently. She nods, a picture of confusion. The somber way Alice is staring at her makes Chloe start to wring her hands._

_"His name was Bumper Allen. He was one of us once, on the road to graduating as a Bello."_

_"What happened to him?" Chloe whispers._

_"No one knows. But one day, he snapped and lit the Hall of Music on fire." Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with horror. Alice nodded gravely. "Two teachers and eight students died. He left the academy... and moved underground. Now, Bumper leads a group of underground terrorists called The Trebles. There's no telling how many Aristo people they've killed. I keep this clipping to remind myself. Do you understand__ now__, honey?" Alice reaches out and takes Chloe's hand. "Those things aren't what you think they are. They may look like us when they're little, but underneath they're treacherous and vile. They don't want to be part of our society and live in the sun for a reason. They're dangerous, Chloe. You wouldn't last five minutes with those monsters. They sleep on the floor. They fornicate in public. They'd skin you alive and eat the rest. Those things in the deep dark... they're not people anymore."_

So long as Chloe is surrounded with approval and smiling faces, the truth about her desires is muted.

But when she is alone, it shrieks.


	4. Chapter Three

**I'm on the battlefield like Oh My God.**

**Oh, la la.**

**Knocking soldiers down like House of Cards.**

**Oh, la la.**

**I'm a one woman army.**

**Oh, la la.**

**Yes, I'm a one woman army.**

**~ Porcelain Black**

**(Seriously. Go listen to One Woman Army. It's an anthem.)**

* * *

Becca clips all of her gun belts into place and shrugs into her earth toned trench coat. While the fabric is durable, it also allows for extensive mobility. She wouldn't be caught dead in a dress - attire expected of Aristo women. Police personnel and common workforce folk are exceptions to that custom. Weapons, however, are strictly prohibited. She will need to stick to the shadows.

All entrances to this nether world are patrolled round the clock by armed guards. She will need to use a ventilation shaft, which are normally left unguarded, due to the presumptuous assumption that the grated tunnel is too small for a person to navigate. She's just small enough to fit through, a fortuitous discovery she made early last year, soon after she was deported. Living without sunlight is one thing, but she refuses to live in the dark when it comes to topsider politics. She scrounges up as much juicy news as she can when she visits the surface. In any war, it is important to know one's opponent.

Aristo Police are not the only folks she has to watch out for. Becca's sparse encounters with Treble Makers have never been peaceful, in spite of the fact that for all intents and purposes they abide on like sides.

With her typical preparations finished, the last thing she does before she leaves her room is apply a few careful dabs of the perfume to her wrists and neck. She strides out the door, briskly descends the stairs, and makes for the south tunnel which branches up to the surface at several points. If memory serves, the second chute will have her come up in the heart of the city, just outside of Lincoln Coliseum.

* * *

Miss Beale opens her door when she's decent again, dressed in a breathtaking blue gown. Her wine red hair couldn't possibly stand out any brighter. Madame Abernathy embraces her. They exchange kisses on the cheek.

"You'll be just wonderful, Chloe dearest. I can't wait. We'll leave you girls to get acquainted. John and I will take our seats. Remember, only the songs we practiced… and keep your feet together. You're on in an hour." Madame Abernathy takes Captain's Smith's arm. They stride regally down the vintage patterned carpet.

Aubrey advances on cue. "Miss Beale, I presume?"

"Oh," the diamond eyed ginger laughs. "Chloe, please."

Aubrey nods stiffly. She peels off one of her leather gloves and extends her hand. "Lieutenant Aubrey Posen." Chloe takes it. Aubrey is surprised to feel the callouses on what she assumed would be baby soft hands. Chloe returns her firm shake with just as much oomph. Perhaps a reevaluation is in order... She blinks. Her surprise must have been more evident than she intended because Chloe's grasp becomes feather light, like a reset trap.

Chloe's glowing grin dims just slightly, her eyes darting to the right. Heat surges into Aubrey's face when she realizes that not only has she held Chloe's hand and gaze for far too long, but she has forgotten to introduce the other officers present. She drops Chloe's hand and squares her shoulders.

"Miss Beale, these are Officers Lily Onakurama and Pat-... Fat Amy."

Chloe - midway to shaking Lily's hand - balks, her eyes popping open.

"F-," she starts. She faces the ample hipped blond. Aubrey is mesmerized with the genuine concern in her face, questioning like a child.

"I call things as I see them, missy," Fat Amy proclaims, sandwiching Chloe's hand between her own. "No need for the Officer thing. Fat Amy suits me just fine."

Chloe's sympathetic vexation dissolves, understanding that the commonly slighted name was openly endorsed. "I see!" She laughs. Aubrey muses at the silver bell sound. "Well, it's a real pleasure to meet both of you." Aubrey is startled by the disappointment that she wasn't included in that comment. Chloe's beauty is too vivid not to envy. But Aubrey doesn't want to be her. Not at all.

Officer Posen clears her throat. "The rookies will escort you downstairs to the stage plank. I will be patrolling the halls." Plus, she needs time to compose herself. Aubrey has never approved of distractions. She's on a mission to protect, not pursue. "Collect your effects."

Chloe stares at her. "Oh! You mean my violin?" She giggles. Aubrey nearly starts shuffling her feet. Police jargon. Dammit all... "Of course. Just a moment." Chloe spins around and floats back into her suite. She emerges with a cherry colored case. Posen nods at Lily. Officer Onakurama takes a purposeful step forward and extends her hands towards Chloe. Chloe eyes her and gradually brings the case closer to her chest, clutching it like prized doll.

"Come on, gingersnap. She just wants to carry it for you," Fat Amy laughs.

"O- oh. Right. Sure." Chloe struggles to smile as she relinquishes the violin. Lily slowly coils her arms around it, holding it even tighter, glowering seriously. The smile Chloe conjures keeps slipping nervously off her face.

"Are you prepared?" Aubrey prompts.

Chloe folds her hands. "Yes. I'm ready now."

Aubrey signals the rookies to fall in at her front and back. They proceed down the hall. Aubrey watches them round the corner. When they are out of sight, she allows herself respite from the tension and drops shoulder shoulders. There should be laws in place against women that beautiful.

* * *

Chloe's heart flutters inside her ribs like a wild bird in a cage. As the retractable platform elevates her up to the ground level of Lincoln Coliseum, she reviews Madame Abernathy's words. Sanctioned songs. Minimal movement. Feet together. Sanctioned songs, minimal movement. Feet together.

She can see over the lip of the stage now. The amphitheater is packed. She squints, trying to make out Madame Abernathy in the sea of faces. She cannot find her.

Sanctioned movements. Minimal songs. Feet –

_Wait. That's not right._ Chloe's nerves storm, her rolling stomach a writhing knot of spiny tangles.

A hush falls over the crowd. She assumes her position, her feet within a hand-span apart, and one positioned daintily in front of the other. Poised to play, her back is ramrod straight and her violin is positioned just beneath her chin. Chloe takes as deep of a breath as the corset allows. She raises her bow, lays it across the strings, and musters her courage. She counts to three, barely mouthing the numbers. She begins to play. Her motions are carefully controlled and her facial expressions are subdued as she drags the bow across the strings.

The audience seems to swoon within the first few notes of _Song of the Caged Bird_.

The song, slow and sad in its melody, is Madame Abernathy's favorite. Chloe takes meticulous note of every detail of her performance, especially her posture.

* * *

Aubrey is captivated by the trills swimming through the air and echoing down the halls. She is convinced that until this moment, she has never heard something so beautiful.

"Excuse me," a voice prompts. Officer Posen rounds on the young man. He wears the typical bell hop uniform of Lincoln Center, clearly indicating his status as an employee, and not a particularly high ranking one. He looks rather like a dancing monkey, especially with his mane of wily curls jutting out from under his hat. His arms are laden with an oversize arrangement of flowers, which he has to crane his neck to peer around.

"Yes?" Officer Posen quips.

"For Miss Beale," he says with a clipped smile of his own. Officer Posen rolls her eyes and stiffly nods her approval. The token blatantly reminds her of the girl's pompous, prissy Aristo status. Aubrey shelves her strange affections. She opens the door to Miss Beale's dressing room, allowing the young man to place the flower arrangement on the bureau.

* * *

Chloe pulls her bow across the strings for the final note. A light shower of glitter rains down from the catwalk high above her, hidden behind the thick red curtains. The song comes to a close. The audience applauds. The sound washes over her. She nods her head respectfully.

Chloe tangents into _Shadows_, the next song in her set. There is more energy in this one. She'll have to be mindful.

The strings sing under her bow, the cadence escalating. Chloe nearly panics when she realizes that she is smiling. She quickly reins in her emotions, blinking rapidly. But as the song continues, and the tempo quickens, the rules and regulations start to slip away from her conscious thoughts. She slowly and surely forgets.

* * *

Far below in the dark grungy streets, Becca tucks today's paper into her belt. It's another piece of news for her collection. Thus far, she has managed to avoid the guards. So long as she sticks to the shadows, she should be fine. The music reaches her. She stops in mid-step. Her head snaps up, zeroing in on the wall ringing the coliseum.

"That sound," she whispers. It strikes a dead cord in her, flooding her with chills of life. Tears spring to her eyes. Becca stares, blindsided, at the unfeeling stone. She has to see this for herself. She suddenly remembers her need to breathe, shocked at the tears dribbling down her cheeks. She hurriedly wipes them away. She will never attain access through the main entrance. Becca strides up to the wall and starts climbing.

* * *

"Code red, Code red!" someone shouts through her com-link. Officer Posen strikes an offensive pose, poised for action as her hand flies to her ear piece.

"Active," she immediately responds.

The voice sounds urgent and a little shaken. "We have an intruder on the premises. Unidentified male, twenties, dressed in a Lincoln valet uniform. Stands at roughly five foot ten, dark skin, curly hair. Not a part of our staff. Repeat, not a part of our staff!"

Aubrey balks, the description matching that of the same young man who delivered the flowers only a moment ago. She looks up just in time to see him break into a sprint and round the corner into the next corridor. She takes off after him.

"This is Officer Posen! Target identified. In pursuit. Seal the building!" She rips her gun out of her belt.

* * *

Chloe's eyes fall closed as_ Shadows_ ends. The emotions coursing through her veins start to creep into her face. She forgets the audience, the stipulations, and the restrictions of her set.

Chloe steps out and plants her feet, diving into _ZiZi's Journey_, a song she learned on her own time. Ruby tresses of her hair start coming loose, framing her face and cascading down her back. She plays for her the parents she never knew, for the anger of her abandonment, for the mold she cannot fill, for the anguish in her heart, and for the overpowering need to be heard.

Not just listened to, but_ heard_.

* * *

Donald stares, awestruck, at the woman on stage. "Bump," he says, entranced. "Do we have to do this?" They stand together by the lever encased by a clear, dusty box in the corner obscured by the draping curtain.

"A plan is a plan is a plan is a plan," Bumper Allen presses, smartly slapping his hand against his other palm.

"But she could… She could die." Donald rounds on his captain and thrusts his arm in the direction of the stage. "She's not one of them. Look at her, dude!" Bumper does. The ginger has a smile more radiant than the moon above them. Her passion is palpable. At this moment, utterly nothing matters to her but her violin and the drive to play.

* * *

Becca finally makes it to the top rung of the coliseum, pulling herself into a rounded window cut into the stone. She putters her lips, nearly exhausted. She stares out over the spectacle, striving to catch her breath. Her eyes are drawn to the mega-screens, projecting the image of a striking red headed woman playing her violin. Becca blinks in surprise.

"A student?" she muses.

* * *

"We shouldn't do this, Bump," Donald tries again, holding his breath as he awaits his ringleader's reply.

Bumper averts his eyes and sets his teeth. A determined scowl assumes control of his face. "No. She's a top student at AOS, Donnie. Don't let her deceive you. She _is_ one of them." He rips open the cover, seizes the rusty lever, and throws it up.

* * *

The platform Red stands on starts to rise, soaring up towards the master level, eight stories above the ground level towards the concrete overhang. The old blue draperies attached to the circular shaped transparent platform come free. They sway and billow in the evening breeze, sending clouds of dust and sparkling flecks of excess glitter into the air. The audience takes a collective gasp, half startled and half amazed. This stage effect has not been used for many years.

This high up, the jewels littering Red's dress start to catch the light, reflecting it in flashes like star bursts. Becca can almost hear them twinkling. She can't move. She can't look away. She can't think about anything aside from the sound. But she can hear it all. She can hear the base and the synth-layers that would match Red's song. She can hear it just behind the violin, like a whisper. The sounds start to swell as Becca lets her mind run with it.

She's perfect. Her sound is perfect, and unlike anything Becca has ever dreamed of.

* * *

Officer Posen careens through the hallways on her target's heels. She leaps, lunges, and tackles him to the ground. She wrestles with him for a split second until she has him pinned with his arm wrenched uncomfortably behind him.

"Identify yourself!" she demands.

The young man starts to chuckle, the sound strained under her weight. She shoves the barrel of her gun against the nape of his neck and pulls the hammer back. "Identify!" she shouts.

He peers over his shoulder. "You're too late, Officer."

Aubrey blanches as it hits her. "The flowers," she whispers.

* * *

Red spins gracefully, never faltering as she dances and twirls across the trans-glass stage, oblivious to anything except the instrument in her hands. She plucks a tune with her fingers. She bends her knees to play a particularly fast trill. She stands again and kicks her leg up.

An explosion rocks the coliseum. Becca braces her hands against the walls of the round window to keep from tumbling back the way she came. A storm of fire, smoke, and masonry erupts from the north wing. Glass shatters. Something cracks.

* * *

"Let's get out of here!" Bumper exclaims, yanking Donald with him.

* * *

Captain Smith is on his feet as the panic and chaos ensues. A scream resounds above them all where the smoke is gathering.

Gail surges to her feet. "John," she blurts in alarm, seizing his arm. "Oh John, it's Chloe!"

All eyes turn skyward. Those that remain inside the coliseum erupt in a chorus of gasps, pointing. Chloe clings to the jagged edge of the break in the stage. The glass surface makes it impossible for her scrambling feet to find purchase. A shoe slips off her foot and plunges down to the ground level, eight stories below her.

"Help! S- someone! Help me! Please!" It's a desperate, pleading sound, undone with fear and strife.

"Hang on Chloe sweetie!" Gail shouts back brokenly. John lays his hand over hers.

Director Mitchell, President of AOS, strides towards the lift operator, standing dumbstruck at the old key pad. "Bring it down, dammit!"

"Sir," the young man stammers, his frantic eyes pregnant with terror. "I - I can't. The hydraulics are all out of line. The explosion- Something's jamming docking the mechanism."

"Find a way to get it down, man!" Mitchell demands, clamping his hand on his shoulder. "If that girl falls, she dies!"

"Sir!" the quaking intern acknowledges dutifully. He returns to his task with renewed fervor.

The security guards on duty begin to usher the crowd away from the towering platform. "Ladies and gentlemen, you need to clear the area immediately. Step back. You cannot be in the collapse zone. Please step back, miss," one of them tells Madame Abernathy.

"Collapse?" Gail echoes.

The guard nods. "Should the support give, that stage is headed right for this row."

Gail gasps, her lace gloved hand flying to her mouth. "John," she manages through her distress. She clings tighter to him. "Oh, John we have to do something! Chloe's up there! Someone do something!" she begs.

"I know. We'll get her down, Gail. We'll get her down," he tries to reassure her as he guides her out of the danger zone.

* * *

Just then, Aubrey shoulders into the thinning crowd. Her uniform is smudged with dirt and dust. There are cuts on her face from the blast. In the commotion, she lost her target, but that does not matter as much right now. She stops short when she breaks through, her eyes glued to her charge, dangling from the ledge above.

"Officer Posen!" Director Mitchell exclaims with a hint of relief. He meets her halfway down the aisle.

Chloe shrieks again. Her image flashes across the mega-screens, damaged in the blast. Her hands are cut. Blood smears the glass and her arms are trembling from the exertion and pain. She's slipping.

Aubrey rounds on one of the ushers. "Ways up," she prompts.

"There's a service stairwell through that door!" He points to the left.

"Elevator?" she presses urgently.

"Closed for repairs."

"Fine." She whirls right. "You, you," she points at Rookies Lily and Amy, who rushed out just after it happened. "With me. Guns out and ready." She yanks hers out of its holster, loads a fresh magazine, and takes it off safety. "The Trebles may still be in the building!"

* * *

Many rows back, near the entry arch, Becca watches flashes of Chloe's big blues blink back tears in the failing mega-screens. She sees three armed officers dash towards the door to the service stairwell.

"That's eight flights up," she realizes, gritting her teeth together. "They'll never make it in time." Becca scans the Coliseum for something, anything, she can use. "Come on Bec, think." She notices the streams of lights hanging from a bolt high above the stage's broken platform. They drape down and spider outward, tacked to the circular stone wall of the structure.

Becca races to a maintenance ladder built into the concrete. It leads to a fuse box. Directly beside that is one of the cords of lights. She climbs to it and yanks it out of the wall. She gives it a few hard tugs. The bolt seems sturdy enough. Becca takes a deep breath, trying not to think about the sharp slope of the seats and the long, long way down if this doesn't go well. She finds a solid grip on the chord and kicks off of the wall. She sails over thousands of seats, gaining speed and momentum as she swings towards the platform.

"One… Two…-!" She tucks her knees in and releases the cord. She drops, falling into a shoulder roll on the safe part of the stage.

* * *

Meanwhile, back in the service stairwell…

Officers Posen and Onakuramara are three flights ahead of self-proclaimed Fat Amy. She stops on the landing of the second floor and braces up against the railing. "Woo~… Stairs." She tries to catch her breath. "I should have taken that cardio tip more seriously."

* * *

"John, look!" Gail cries.

"Someone's up there!" another woman exclaims. More spectators gasp and mutter to one another. Director Mitchell leaves the frantic intern at the key pad and steps back into the aisle to get a better view of the mega-screen. His eyes widen.

"It's a Treble!" A guard shouts. He raises his gun. John shoves his arms down.

"No! You could hit Miss Beale!"

"But sir," he defends, "she could be the terrorist who planted the bomb!" John and Mitchell exchange grave, furrowed glances. The young brunette is indeed dressed like someone from the underground sectors... but the Trebles are an all-male group... aren't they?

The young woman inches towards the break in the stage and the struggling Chloe. Her dark hair obscures her face. She drops to her knees and extends her hand.

"She's going to help!" Gail proclaims through an unbridled grin with tears trickling out of her eyes. "It's alright! She's going to help her, John!" She squeezes his arm.

Everyone watches, holding in a collective breath.

* * *

Becca leans over the edge, extending her hand as she stretches towards the violinist. "Hey! Hey, up here! It's okay. Take my hand."

Red's head snaps up. Her watery Caribbean blues get bigger, absorbing Becca's telling attire. "You're-?"

"I'm here to help you!" Becca finishes. "Reach for me." The stage groans cavernously. "Reach for me!" Becca demands, leaning lower.

The girl licks her lips. She reaches up, stretching out her arm and grabbing for Becca's hand, but her own is slick with blood. They brush fingers. She almost slips.

"I can't!" Red shouts in despair, resuming her feeble grip on the jagged ledge.

"Yes you can!" Becca rebuts. The stage shudders beneath her knees. Something cracks.

Red shakes her head rapidly. "No, I can't!" She's on the verge of sobs.

"Yes you can! You listen to me! Yes you can! You're titanium. You're bulletproof, woman! NOW REACH!"

Red fills her lungs, musters every fiber of strength she has left, and makes another valiant grab for Becca, catching her by the wrist. Becca's hand locks around her wrist. She hoists her up and helps her over the edge and into her arms. The broken piece gives way, plummeting to the ground. The bystanders scream. Luckily, the path is clear and, albeit the mess of debris and broken glass, everyone is well out of harm's way.

* * *

Safely hunkered down in the stranger's arms, a fruity, floral aroma cushions Chloe's senses. Chloe opens her eyes and slowly inclines her chin, reluctant to leave this unspoken sanctuary. They meet eyes. The girl looks to be around her age with cloudy green eyes, dark eyebrows, and sharp features. She's a handsome woman, as far as women go. Chloe doesn't know what to make of her appearance, and what her actions imply.

Don't underlings hate Topsiders? Weren't underlings supposed to be ugly and dirty?

"Thank you," Chloe whispers.

The brunette responds with a warm smirk.

* * *

"She's alright! Oh, thank god!" Gail sobs joyfully, nearly ready to collapse.

"I don't believe it," John marvels. "That under—" He thinks twice and, to their surprise, corrects himself. "That girl saved her life."

Officer Posen bursts through the side service door just as the stranger is helping Chloe to her feet. They see it all through the failing mega-screen, but the smoke congesting around the ceiling isn't making it easy. The brunette's head snaps in Aubrey's direction, presenting a full view of her face for the first time.

Director Mitchell blanches. "… Becca?" he whispers, stupefied.

* * *

"Freeze! Hands up!" Posen demands Chloe's rescuer. "You're under arrest for high treason against the Barden Bureau of Justice! Come quietly, or I'll use lethal force!"

Chloe whirls around, spreading her arms and planting herself between Officer Posen and her rescuer. Her bloody hands give Posen pause. "No, Aubrey! Wait!"

Aubrey steels her expression. "Stand down, Beale! I have my orders!" A cloud of smoke drifts between them. When it clears, Officer Posen's eyes widen, darting about behind Chloe. The bystanders start muttering again.

Chloe pivots to find nothing but empty space behind her. The far curtain settles back into place. "She's gone," she whispers.

* * *

**Check this author out. He's managed to mesh Sailor Moon and Marvel, and it's pretty fucking awesome. ****TuxedoMask2011**

**Nizoyo: Thank you... I think! Just hoping I can do some justice to my second fav ship of all time! You should not be so hard on yourself. Boo that! :( I'm sure you're a brilliant author with exceptional ideas. I work professionally as a ghost writer. I still have a loooooooong way to go to get where I want to be. I finally have time to add to this fic, which excites me like nothing else. I'm dog tired, but all I can do is write. It's all I ever _want_ to do. I think I have a problem... Like a serious medical condition. LOL**

**Thank you for reading/reviewing/being awesome. **

**COR and SOS followers, I'M SORRY. x( Soon. We swears!**


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